


The Kids Aren't Alright

by paperface



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bilbo is a smush, But what is new, Dark themes if you squint really really hard through a telescope, Elrond is constantly rolling his eyes at this mess, Fíli and Kíli Are Little Shits, M/M, Thorin is a grump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperface/pseuds/paperface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins, a self-proclaimed madman though "neurotic perfectionist" or even a shudder-inducing "nag" would be a better descriptor, had found the perfect balance between a stuffy and pretentious life when he abruptly became the guardian of his young orphaned nephew. Guardianship stumping Bilbo the way ancient maps and Old Norse texts never did so he decides to move the two of them to Bilbo's childhood home of the Shire. Of course, Bilbo's forgotten about the Durins, which is quite easy to do when you're juggling constant worry, pies, and ancient texts in your brain. And of course, the Durins—Thorin especially—do not forget</p><p>To help Frodo get over his past, Bilbo has to confront his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kids Aren't Alright

As if struck from by a bolt of lightning, Bilbo Baggins sat as straight up as the cushy leather seat would allow, his collection of Frank O'Hara poetry cluttering to the ground. "By God, the holiday house!" 

If this Starbucks had been in any other city than New York, he would have attracted plenty of odd looks. As it was, no one batted an eye as Bilbo bent down, smug and satisfied, muttering to himself as he smoothed out the creases in his beloved book. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of the countryside property yet, but it had been years since he'd set foot there. It always smelled of freshly cut grass and wild roses in the Shire, scents that only made their way through the city if they originated in an overpriced perfume bottle. 

Thinking of the Shire was a blanket of tranquility over Bilbo, who, in true New York fashion, was both people-watching and sucking everything he could out of the painfully slow public wi-fi, waiting for his nephew to come out of therapy. Frodo had all but forbade Bilbo from waiting in the lobby, because apparently having pleasant morning chats with strangers wasn't cool by eleven-year-olds. "Or anyone," Frodo had said with a once rare scowl that was becoming alarmingly more frequent. Bilbo had backed down from the battle gracefully, even though he hated that Frodo was walking from the therapy office to a Starbucks on his own. Yes, it was only across the street, but it was also Manhattan and just yesterday, some bloke on the subway had yelled at Bilbo to return his flamingo this instance. Bilbo frowned at the memory and couldn’t help huffing slightly—as if he would take a flamingo on public transportation, let alone steal one from someone else. People in the Shire knew that a Baggins would never touch a plastic garden ornament, especially one obnoxiously pink.

The more Bilbo thought about it, the better it sounded: moving back to the Shire. Adrenaline that Bilbo only got when he was on a particularly good knitting streak or making plans caused him to exit out of the internet browser and into his contacts. He wanted a calm mind to bounce this off of—and maybe marvel and praise him for his resourcefulness. The hipster couple on the couch next to Bilbo had no idea they were snogging in the presence of a genius. 

"Bilbo." It was the closest Bilbo had ever gotten to a proper greeting. 

"I'm seeking," Bilbo emphasized, "the counsel of Elrond." He thought that was clever. Elrond detested it, possibly because it implied Bilbo's continual need for advice and that Elrond was the default advisor. 

"That will never catch on. You lower yourself, Bilbo."

"Okay, I've got an idea." Elrond could convey exasperation even in his silence. "Don't roll your eyes at me, it's a good idea this time. Let me set the scene for you."

"Please don't."

"My flat in upstate New York—snowy winters, pleasant walks. Late nights with the typewriter—"

"My dear friend," Elrond revealed the smallest fraction of amusement and affection. "I'll ill-equipped to appreciate your tremendous gift of the gab."

"Right." Bilbo leaned back, Frank O'Hara slipping off his knee and settling in the armchair crack. "Concise."

"Concise." It was Elrond's most repeated advice, to the point it had become a bit of a mantra.

"You know, that reminds. Kerouac—it's quote—'One day I'll find the right words, and they will be simple'. It really sums up American literature, doesn't it, like if you think back to Hemingway and that entire iceberg theory, but what's odd is I find in English, especially American English, words are seen as synonyms you know? Compared to German, with its grammar structure and general language structure—in German, every word is connected to one meaning. It really—"

"Bilbo."

"Right, sorry. What was I on about?"

"Your brilliance."

"I'll ignore that. My family has—had, I guess it’s mine now—a holiday house up in New Zealand. Have you ever heard of the Shire? It’s really quite lovely, I grew up there, it’s quaint but not dull, warm but not hot, friendly but not childish—and beautiful scenery.” Excitedly, Bilbo could feel himself getting carried away. He had two green thumbs, like his mother, and nature was something he couldn’t help rambling on about. “The flowers, the sun—the grass. You have never seen grass until you’ve seen Shire grass. It’s beyond compare. Just looking at it can do things to you nothing else can, I swear you’d think you’ve reached Nirvana or whatever—Oi!” One of the hipsters on his left had disengaged from snogging and had all but sidled up to Bilbo. Bilbo cupped the phone into his shoulder. The Counsel of Elrond was meant for him. 

"Sorry, dude." Clearly an American. Bilbo spied a greasy man-bun and his annoyance increased exponentially. The American's eyes fidgeted around the room before he lowered his voice into Bilbo’s ear. “You got some of that Shire grass on you?”

Bilbo stared at him before making a retching sound and leaning back. Elrond’s impatience was vibrating from the speaker of his phone. “It’s not a drug, you dolt, it’s landscape!” Instantly disinterested, the hipster slid away as quickly as he had come and soon, he was engaged in kissing his girlfriend. “Americans,” Bilbo sighed into his phone.

“Now you sound like your father.” Elrond’s voice was almost cheerful. “Listen, Bilbo, it's a sin to rush you, but I do have plans today."

“But it’s not even noon.” He hadn't even described the fresh pastries from the bakery down the street. 

“That’s my point. I’ve not time for you swooning on and on about a beautiful magic place, unless you’re gifting me a holiday there. Bilbo, you are truly one of my dearest friends, but you have a way with words. As in, using too many of them.” 

"Fine! I want to move to the Shire. With Frodo, of course."

The silence on the other end was enough to make the guilt grow in Bilbo’s chest. He could mouth the words as Elrond said them: “That’s four moves in two years.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Bilbo said hurriedly. “But it’d be the last move. I think we can both agree New York was not a good move.”

"First it was California—"

"Can we really blame me for the ridiculous taxes that state has the audacity to impose on hardworking citizens?"

"You're a writer," Elrond said, incredulous. "You work in your bed." 

"Well, so do prostitutes and I don't think anyone can argue that they're not hard workers."

"After California, it was Arizona—"

"I detrimentally underestimated the sun and heat." 

"Then it was Florida."

"Underestimated the humidity. And mosquitoes."

"Then New York. Now the Shire. You have a child. They need stability. Is this about work? Is there a job offer? I could always use you in the social media department—whatever they're offering you, I can counter."

“This is completely my idea. My work moves with me, as always.”

“Bilbo,” Elrond said softly. “This is a seven-year-old boy. You can’t just try to dazzle him with pretty, pretty landscapes and expect him to be happy. It’s not about the places—“

“New York is a miserable place to raise a kid,” Bilbo said glumly. “I'm miserable. I know moving isn’t going to instantaneously make him happy, but it’s awful here. I’m terrified when he goes out to check the mail and, yes, he’s made some friends, but it’s hell to drive in this town and I’m not a fan of the public transportation, mind you. Frodo needs freedom, especially after everything. He needs freedom and security to be happy and I can’t give that to him here. The Shire’s different. It’s safe, it’s rural, it’s natural—“

"Why you moved to a city is beyond me. Clearly you are built for the natural world. Are you sure the hair on your feet's not severed roots?"

"Attempting prose, I see. I've rubbed off on you."

"Absolutely not," Elrond said in such a haughty manner Bilbo knew he'd got him. 

Bilbo sighed. "I'll miss you."

"So you're doing it." There was no judgment, just concern. 

"I'm not like you, Elrond. I don't have an army behind me."

"It's a community."

"What I mean is, I'm on my own."

"I'm sorry," Elrond said after a minute, "I know I told you—"

"Please, don't. It's unnecessary. You've done nothing but help." Bilbo bit his lip, looking around the busy café again and the bustling streets outside. He could make out familiar brown curls jaywalking with the rest of the city. The sight of the blinking red hand contrasted with his nephew bustling past impatient cars made him wince. Neither of them were ready for a city this harsh. “I see Frodo. I’ll have to talk to you later. This is a good idea, right?”

“It could be,” was all Elrond offered. “Just remember, children are delicate, Bilbo. Especially ours.”

“I know.” There was a heavy silence. The brown curls were coming closer and Bilbo felt relieved, as he always did when he saw Frodo. Because, of course, when he saw Frodo he didn’t just see the seven-year-old boy. He saw Drogo and Primula and, for some unknown reason, he saw his own mother in him. Crazy. Crazy Bilbo Baggins, the longwinded precocious writer. Bilbo shook his head. He did truly hate the jaywalking. There was no doubt about it; they’d have to move. No one had ever jaywalked in the Shire. Modern day traffic had passed over the town.

“Right then,” Bilbo said, realizing he hadn’t hung up yet. “Talk to you later. Give my love to Arwen and the boys. Call me if you have trouble.”

“You do the same,” Elrond said solemnly. “Give our love to Frodo. Tell him Arwen misses dancing with him terribly.” Bilbo smiled at the thought of Arwen dancing with Frodo at the support group’s banquet last year. “Take care of yourself as well, Bilbo.”

"You too." The words were overflowing with emotion. Elrond had witnessed Bilbo’s many breakdowns, break-ups, meltdowns, moves, and, of course, that one time everything had overwhelmed him and Bilbo just lost it and screamed in the middle of his kitchen, screamed and couldn’t stop. Yet, Bilbo had never seen anything happen to Elrond and Elrond had been widowed since Arwen was seven, ten years ago. Of course, Elrond had his mother and his cultural community behind him but still. Bilbo was worried about the day Elrond would finally crack.

Bilbo had just hung up the phone when the hipster couple left Starbucks and Frodo immediately took their spots. 

“Hey,” Bilbo forced a smile. “How’re you doing?” Frodo always got quiet after his one-on-one sessions with Dr. Brown The little boy hated therapy—he’d even hated the group sessions until Arwen started to play with him.

Frodo shrugged. “I’m fine.” He bent his head down, fiddling with his fingers so all Bilbo could see was a head of curly hair.

“Do you want a cinnamon roll?”

“Nah.”

Bilbo’s face fell. It was rare for Frodo to refuse food. He hadn’t eaten the entire week after the funerals. “Coffee, perhaps?” Frodo had been eager to try Bilbo’s morning drink and Bilbo had never let him.

“No, thank you.”

Drat. It was like a teenager turning down alcohol. 

Moment of truth now. Bilbo was desperate. “Frodo,” he said quietly, knowing that this was the worst place for any sort of meaningful conversation, but this was also the worst town for a shy little boy who’d lost his parents in a freak accident he still couldn’t comprehend and Bilbo Baggins was, by far, doing the worst job as a substitute guardian. “Are you happy?”

Something in Bilbo’s voice must have resonated with Frodo because Frodo looked up, surprised almost and Bilbo thought he could see his heart break in those two beautiful blue eyes that had seen so much, and wanted none of it. In another life, those eyes would have been joyful. Instead, they were as impenetrable as sheets of ice. “No. I’m not.”

“Okay. That’s okay, Frodo.” Bilbo nodded slowly, nervous. “I know this move was a bad decision. I can see it now, the city—the city’s just not right for us. It’s not what we need right now. So, um…we’re going to move to the Shire. We’re going back to Bag End.”

 

There were many reasons why Bilbo was heavily advocating the Shire move. Firstly, because Frodo was glum at best and nothing seemed to change that. Secondly, he finally wanted to do something right for the poor boy. He didn’t want to torture him with cross-country years. Third, Bilbo was honestly sick of cities and longed for the soft Earth. Fourth, he had missed the holiday home and he wanted to stay there, period. No more moving. 

But, despite all the reasons why moving to the Shire would be a very good thing for both him and Frodo, a tiny part of Bilbo, the part that was still fourteen and anxious, insecure, vulnerable, was terrified at the prospect of setting foot in Bag End again. 

Because with the Bag End came the Shire, With the Shire came Hobbiton. With Hobbiton came Dale. Headlines and newspapers and those annoying notifications on his phone he couldn’t turn off had kept Bilbo updated enough to know that with Dale came Erebor. And with Erebor, of course, came the Durins.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Hopefully not a terrible first fic but please comment anyways. This is not one of those stories that takes itself too seriously (or even seriously at all), it's pure entertainment so if it's not entertaining pls lmk and hit me up with some advice. 
> 
> My writing style is kinda rambly, so if you have any opinions of that lmk.


End file.
